


Violin

by nbbucky



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, M/M, Mind Palace, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 19:16:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9399092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nbbucky/pseuds/nbbucky
Summary: Jim Moriarty is dead but that doesn't stop Sherlock from thinking of him.





	

He was thinking of James Moriarty, he thought of Moriarty often, more often than he cared to admit and he admitted it quite often and quite loudly. Sherlock was cooking up the last of his current supply of heroin, he tapped the needle and remembered that he was doing this for John and yet he could only think of how Moriarty had yet to visit him in his state. He expected his mind to conjure up images of him to beguile him, tease him, anger him but he had not even appeared. It was not as if Sherlock had not tried again and again after making it back to 221B, at first it was because he wanted clues and thought Moriarty, even his mind palace version, would provide some and now it was because his mind was on fire, reality and fiction bleeding together, and it just truly seemed to be Moriarty’s sort of scene. 

He pushed the needle into his skin and exhaled softly. He liked the process of preparing Heroin, not as much as the drug itself but he did enjoy it. In his younger days he knew other addicts that loved the needle more than the drug itself. Addictive behavior was fascinating but he had never found himself researching it, he didn’t want to see himself in the symptoms. His mind was racing but he couldn’t move so he shut his eyes.

He didn’t know how long he had been there on the floor of 221B with a needle stuck in his arm just that he could’ve melted through the floor with how absolutely boneless he was. 

He heard footsteps and smiled, he was going to to get another hit which, if he were being honest, was very bad, truly terrible, but good, oh so very good. He was doing this for John but every since Moriarty had shot himself he had missed the feeling he had provided and had felt a severe inclination to his old habits. He let his thoughts turn to the rooftop and the moment he would always regret, though he would never vocalize regretting, not noticing in time. He had not realized Moriarty had used his right hand in time to stop him from putting a bullet in the most brilliant brain Sherlock had ever encountered. He felt hollow when reliving that moment when he had been informed from others he should feel triumph. Feeling triumph because the only other person to truly challenge and intrigue him had committed suicide, he couldn’t fathom it. 

He often envisioned noticing in time, pulling his left hand forward and knocking the gun out of it, bringing him close and letting Moriarty indulge in the contact Sherlock had noticed he denied himself of. He dwelled on the wording of their conversation and the look in Moriarty’s eyes, the tears just starting to well up, right before their handshake. Looking back while lying motionless on his floor he frowned while realizing what he should have realized… suddenly the footsteps stopped.

The person in his flat began to tap their foot, Sherlock could tell by the volume in relation to where he was lying that the person was between his window and violin. The sound of wood gently bumping against a leg brought him to as much attention he could be while staying still and not opening his eyes, why were they touching his violin?

“You should play for me. The last time you called me here you didn’t play for me but when I was actually here you did. Why’s that, Sherlock?” He thumped the violin against his foot and Sherlock felt his throat constrict and his heart begin to race. 

“Oo, the silent treatment. How boring, would you at least look at me. Sherlock, come on, I look great, a perfect copy, no hole in my head this time,” He sounded so playful and Sherlock wanted to play along so so very badly, so even though it would hurt him in the end Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes and turned over to look at his visitor. 

James Moriarty did, in fact, look ‘good’. He was perfectly whole and healthy and there in 221B. But it was a lie because James Moriarty had shot himself in the head five years prior. 

Perhaps Sherlock had a habit of self-harm all along because he stood, using an incredible amount of effort, walked towards Moriarty and then carefully took the violin out of his hand. 

“I’ll play for you, Jim,” He whispered and he wished the man standing so close, always so close, was the actual man and not his mind. The name sounded foreign in his mouth, he had never called him that outloud or even in thought until that moment but it felt appropriate for what he was about to indulge in. 

“That beard is quite a thing on your face, dear. I appreciate you trying new looks but perhaps consider going back to shaving,”

“I…” Sherlock was suddenly aware that he was disheveled and dirty, he normally wouldn't care but Jim looked perfect. 

“Ah, yes. You're doing all this,” He gestured at Sherlock and the flat, “for Dr. Watson,”

He was mischievous as always so Sherlock smirked and placed the violin under his chin. 

When he had first gone on the run after Moriarty had died and faked his own suicide he was away from all the comforts he relied on, including his violin. He still composed, entirely in his head but he still composed. In field work when it would almost become too much he would consider the next note in the song he had become obsessed with writing since his fall. Every day for the two years he spared at least a moment to composing that song, his song. While mentally composing he knew how the song would sound but knew it would never be played on an actual violin or heard by any ears because he had composed the song for James Moriarty and no one could know that. No one could hear it, not even someone who would not understand, couldn’t even begin to fathom the depth of emotion, like John because the emotions were recognizable even to the ignorant. 

He knew when he had reached his hand out and took the violin out of Jim’s hand, knew he was going to play the song that had consumed him for two years.

“I have yet to play this song before,”

“And you still won't have after this. All in your head remember?”

“Of course,” As if he could have forgotten that this was not, could never be, real.

He had considered, many times, writing down the song in some fashion and then hiding it away. He had done something similar when he was a small child scribbling music notes on notebook paper and hiding it away from Mycroft and his parents, hiding the sentiment away. It had never really worked. He could never balance remembering the song and successfully keep it locked away from his family. He either got caught, usually by Mycroft, or deleted the song because it was written down anyway. He wanted neither of those things to happen to the song he had written with Jim in mind.

He played, watched Jim’s face and then shut his eyes because it hurt, really truly hurt. It was all the feelings he abhorred standing before him, his abominable bride, as alive as he could be, which was not at all. 

He played and tried not to think of Moriarty, he played and thought only of James Moriarty. The music was vibrant, beautiful and brilliant because James Moriarty was. When he finished playing he opened his eyes and noted the slight smile, a true, happy smile on Jim’s face. 

There were many things Sherlock wanted to ask but he was shocked when the one he said was, “Why did you choose to come now?”

“Choice. Choice is an interesting word isn’t it? I think it even sounds a bit funny. Choice. Choice. Choice. Choice. Choice,”

“What are you…”

“Choice, huh, it barely sounds like a word now that I’ve said it so much but words and language are rather strange things. _Choice_ is no longer a part of my vocabulary, I am here because you want me to be here. I thought we went over this last time Sherlock, don’t be dull,” 

“I wanted more answers to your little strategy out there, about our posthumous game,”

“Oh, you don’t want me to do that at all. Why am I really here?”

“Because I need you to be here,”

“Stop it!” He looked furious, Sherlock knew that yell from their first meeting at the pool, “Don’t. Just tell me,”

Sherlock felt frustrated, perhaps he didn’t want to tell anyone, perhaps he didn’t want anyone to know. The frustrating was all bubbling to the surface and… 

“Because I miss you!” Sherlock shouted at him and it echoed back into his ears a thousandfold, it was loud, so deafening that he felt suffocated. He was drowning, no one had actually heard him, all in his head, but to realize that he desired a closeness beyond their game, that he missed _Jim_ not just Moriarty was crushing, even moreso because he had never been given the chance to know Jim. Regret coursed through him again, it had always been a bit more difficult to shift through and control his emotions when he was in his mind palace but this was ridiculous; the things Jim could do to him were ridiculous. 

He stepped forward, placed his hand on Jim’s face and when Jim turned his face in to kiss Sherlock’s palm he knew waking up was going to ache.

Sherlock felt every tickle of Jim’s lips against his palm when he whispered, “That’s your truth,”

He pulled back and they were so close, he could have kissed him but he didn’t because Sherlock wouldn’t hurt himself that dearly, wouldn’t cripple himself.

“Merely touching you is enough,” He lied to himself but… 

“You're not _really_ touching me,” Jim finished and he wasn't mocking him. His expression was soft as if he felt sorrow over their tragedy, “We could've, you know that. We could've but the most important thing was the game, not that I didn't love it, but we would've came first and neither of us could have ever done something like that. You have John and your brother and they most certainly wouldn’t have appreciated you running off to snog me,”

Sherlock nodded and smiled a bit, even the joke at the end had been soft, it was what he hadn’t even realized that he needed to hear, his hand was still on Jim's cheek and he knew he was going to be waking up soon because the conversation had served its purpose but he had always been jarred awake when Jim was around, he wondered how the slow awakening would treat him. 

It treated him well. In his mind’s version of 221B the sun was setting and the two could see it through the wide window. They stood there, close merely touching until Sherlock woke up with tears streaked down his face. 

He wiped his face off and sat up, he really needed another hit, good thing there was a new needle sitting there on his chair. He sighed, pulled himself into his chair and shot up.

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to get this out before the final episode of the series but here we are... I just couldn't for the life of me finish it, I was really stuck for a while. But hey it's done now. Anyway, comments are a writer's best friend ;)


End file.
